Presuming, At Great Risk

AN EIGHTY YEAR OLD friend of mine related that sixty years ago, while in Atlanta, he stepped into an elevator, and saw a young African-american man standing quietly next to the door, wearing what appeared to be a customer service uniform of some sort. My friend smiled at the young gentleman, and said: "fifth floor please". This was in the era in which many big city elevators still had a person stationed inside,operating them, similarlty to how, long ago, gas stations had service attendants who pumped gas while customers remained in their cars. Then came self service gas pumps and self serve elevators... The man looked at my friend, but said nothing. He punched a button, the elevator began to move in that all too familair disquieting way, defying gravity, and up they went. It stopped at the third floor, and the black man got off without a word. In a sudden shock of awareness, my friend realized that he had not spoken to an elevator operator, but rather, to another passenger. My octogenerian friend confided to me that as he made his lonely way to the fifth floor, he couldn't help but wonder what the young black man was thinking as he walked away from the elevator, on to his third floor destination. Or, what he mumbled to himself, or what he later told his friends, family, and associates about the awkward moment. He wondered whether he had mumbled "damned cracker", or some such, and whether, in his later retelling of the story, he had used phrases like "effing honkie"... "Who knows", I rhetorically said... Maybe he is still alive, and still telling the story today. And if, lord willing, he still is, we agreed that we both hope that he is doing so in a much softened tone, with a poignant smile on his now aged face, his wrinkled visage revealing a tolerant, resigned attitude towards the blatant racism of the past. And that he has, over time, come to forgive my presumptuous, unintentionally racist friend................ Another friend of mine of about the same age recalled that long ago he was in a bar, having a drink with a white, working class stranger whom he had just met. On the dance floor was an attractive white lady dancing with a tall, handsome African-American gentleman. The stranger noticed, looked troubled, and said: "I'll be right back. I'm gonna help that lady". He approcahed the dancing couple, and, just as the dance was ending, said to the lady: "May I share a dance with you?" She pleasantly agreed. As they danced, the heroic stranger told her: "I just thought I should rescue you from that N-word". (he said the N-word). The lady, seemingly unfazed, responded without missing a beat: "that N-word (she said the N-word) happens to be my husband". The failed hero left the dance floor the moment the song ended, mumbled a muffled thank you to the bi-racially married lady, and not only quickly left the floor, but the entire building as well. My story teller friend and I pondered what the stymied defender of feminine virtue and and American way might have thought to himself as he got to the street, and how he tells the story now, or if he is too ashamed to tell it at all. Most likely, the night of the event, his thoughts were on the decline of American society. Most likely, if he is still alive,he has a different take on the whole affair- event, possibly denying it altogether to himself, possibly never sharing it with anyone else. The life lesson that both the elevator rider and the cracker dancer should have learned is quite evident. Never assume that you know what's going on until you know what's going on. Don't be presumptuous. Do your homework. The elevator rider learned this, he confided to me. Whether the dancing savior of feminine virtue did remains unknown, and will remain so forever. We can hope that he did. We can probably assume that he did not, although, of course, we should assume nothing.